


Little Kings

by murder_wives



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat, Shades of Magic - V. E. Schwab
Genre: Begging, Biting, Blood, Crying, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Gags, Hickeys, Kidnapping, Knives, M/M, The Dane twins are their own warning, Whump, ring gags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:01:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26447494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murder_wives/pseuds/murder_wives
Summary: In which Damen and Laurent are kidnapped by the Dane twins. Predictably, misery ensues.
Relationships: Astrid/Laurent, Athos/Damen, Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 27





	1. snakes and roses

**Author's Note:**

> So for whatever reason I’ve decided to do a Captive Prince/the Dane twins crossover fic. Don’t ask why, I don’t know. I feel like Laurent goes well with them, for whatever reason. God, if you’re reading this, I am so sorry. Everyone else, enjoy!

When Laurent wakes up, the first thing he notices is the smell. 

He’s used to waking up slowly, next to Damen, breathing in his scent, lazy kisses and morning light, tangled sheets from their lovemaking the night before. 

This is, decidedly, not that. For one thing, he can’t see: the room is likely dark, and there’s a blindfold tied tightly over his eyes. For another, he’s sitting upright in a hard chair, bound at the wrists, ankles, and waist. His head is throbbing; he’s been drugged. 

Then, there’s the smell: cloying, floral, sickly sweet roses with an undertone of rot. Not Damen. There’s another smell, too, like iron, coppery, like blood. Definitely not Damen. But familiar: where has he smelled that before? His head is throbbing, there’s a thick haze over his mind, he can’t think straight. He can’t remember. 

“Glad to see that you’re finally awake, sweetheart.” 

That voice. It’s a woman’s voice, lilting, with a slight accent. He remembers the smell now. It belongs to the voice: the woman, in the inn, last night. Blonde. Flirtatious. He hadn’t paid her much mind, though he can see now that that was a mistake. 

He hears her step closer. “I take it you slept well? We had the hardest time waking you up.”

Laurent, subtly, clears his throat. 

“I did. Thanks to your hospitality.” 

He’s finding it difficult to maintain his usual cool, even tone, difficult to think up clever remarks, difficult to think at all. His mind is reeling. Where is he? Where is Damen? Is Damen alright? Is he alive? He should be trying to think his way out of this, but he can’t keep his mind off of the well being of the damned King of Akelios. 

We. The woman had said we. She did have a companion, last night, male, but otherwise exactly like her. Blonde. Flirtatious. Easy to ignore. Easy to forget. He’d been foolish. 

Laurent heads the rustle of fabric as the woman closes the distance between the two of them. A cool hand is laid, possessively, on the back of his neck. Behind the blindfold, Laurent closes his eyes. 

“Let’s take this off, shall we?” Laurent feels better fingers begin to work at the knotting in the cloth. Her voice sends chills down his spine; it’s lost the warm, bubbly edge of last night, and is now quietly, windingly sweet, like poisoned honey. Like a serpent among flowers. This close, the cloying edge of her smell is more prominent. His nose smells like blood.

The blindfold falls away, and Laurent’s eyes are assaulted by light. Blinking to clear them, he quickly takes in the room: he’s in what appears to be a cell, similar to the one where he killed Govart at Guoin’s keep. It’s relatively dark. Behind him, the woman: her hair is brushing his shoulder. In front of him: a dark mound, unmoving. Judging by the size, it’s Damen. Damen. Is he breathing? 

The woman behind him shifts so that her chin settles on his shoulder, wraps her arms around his throat. Laurent represses a shudder. 

“He’s not dead, if that’s what you’re wondering,” she murmurs, into his ear. And then kisses him, gently, near the top of his neck. It’s like being kissed by a snake.

Laurent releases a long, shuddering breath. Damen is here, and he’s alive. It’s just the woman in this room. He can get them out of here. He will. 

“What do you want?” He asks. No point in avoiding the real question here. Better to have everyone’s motives out in the open: his, to escape with his life and Damen’s. Hers, probably money or power. Negotiable. 

“What do I want?” She says, ponderously. Her fingernails lightly scratch the skin above his ear, twirl through his hair.

“Do you want money? Power? Both are attainable. Keep this civil, and I will be comfortable to leave you unscathed, and a good deal richer.” 

He’s not himself, he can’t think, whatever they drugged him with has his mind foggy and preoccupied. Dimly, he registers a portion of his brain that is given over solely to panic for Damen. He just wants to keep this brief and clean, and as long as he and Damen are allowed to retain their lives and their dignity, he will happily give up whatever this woman wants. 

When she speaks again, she sounds amused. “No, no, I don’t want your money, little king. What do I want?” 

Laurent dreads her next words. 

“You.”

Laurent feels chills going down his spine. Her tone is sing song, casually possessive, and he’s beginning to think that maybe getting out of this won’t be quite so easy as giving up a few acres of land. 

She’s still talking. 

“We broke our last plaything, you see, and this time Athos let me choose a new one.” 

Laurent feels nauseated. 

“And I,” she says, dragging her nails lightly down his throat, “chose,” she pinches, hard enough to draw blood, “you.” 

She leans down, her long blonde hair brushing over his shoulder, and lightly sucks the blood from the small wound on his neck. When she looks back up at him, her lips are stained red.

“Athos will have fun with your boyfriend,” she whispers in his ear. “I bet he’s pretty, when he begs.”

Laurent closes his eyes. 

Clearly, there is something deeply wrong with this woman. She is not going to let him ransom himself and Damen and leave. She is not going to be bullied into releasing them. They will have to escape. Carefully, Laurent begins trying his bonds. 

She notices. “None of that, darling. Wouldn’t want you to get any ideas.” Laurent stops. 

“Of course not,” he responds. Laurent has no idea how to proceed. This woman is not one to be reasoned with.

To his right, the door unlocks, and opens. In walks a man - this must be Athos. He locks the door. He is the mirror image of the woman behind him, if he remembers correctly from last night, except for the shorter hair and more muscular build. They are twins. 

The man is blond, like Laurent, but unlike Laurent his hair is nearly colorless, the same almost-white shade as his skin. His ice-blue eyes glisten in his pale face, above colorless lips. His veins trace darkly down his throat. He is holding a knife. He looks ghostly, terrible, and very, very dangerous. 

He’s taller than Laurent, but not so tall as Damen. Well built. Damen could best him in wrestling, Laurent could not. Laurent’s best weapon is his mind, but as the woman behind him starts to suck on his neck, he begins to think that it may not be so useful here. 

“Astrid,” says the man. That must be her name, then. His voice is like ice rasping on stone. 

Astrid looks up from where she had been methodically mauling Laurent’s throat. “He’s pretty, isn’t he?”

Athos crouches beside the prone form that is, presumably, Damen. “Yes.”

Athos looks at Laurent and smiles wickedly. “We are going to have a lot of fun.” 

Astrid bites down on his throat.


	2. old friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More misery. Damen’s POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🚨 RAPE WARNING 🚨  
> Please don’t read this if you are triggered by or upset by reading anything of this nature. It is non-graphic, but it definitely happens. Proceed with caution.

Damen comes awake in stages. 

First, he notices the throbbing in his skull. How could he not? Dimly, he recalls the days when he was sent, drugged, to Vere. This - impossibly - feels worse. His heart is trying to escape via his head.

Then, he processes - he is lying on his stomach, on cold stone, somewhere mildly damp. Something in his brain registers that this, combined with a (likely drug induced) headache, is not good. He feels pleasantly distant. Maybe he’ll go back to sleep. There’s a comforting murmur of voices nearby, just enough to lull his tired mind... 

Knife. Under his chin. Hand in his hair, pulling his head up. Damen’s eyes snap open. 

“Hello, plaything,” says Athos Dane. 

He’s the one holding the knife. His pale eyes are glittering. His hand is fisted in Damen’s hair. 

Damen feels his heart accelerate. It’s been years since he last saw Athos. He’d been an emissary from some little city-state outside of Akelios: Sjilt, he thinks. People of cold skin and colder hearts. Athos: even more so, the bitter anger of a brother fifth in line to the throne twisting and hardening his heart. Damen’s interactions with Athos had been blessedly brief. Too brief, he thinks now, as Athos pulls his head up by the hair, into better light. Wildly, he remembers bedding a girl that Athos had had his eye on. What, is this revenge? 

“Been a long time, old friend,” drawls Athos, digging the knife in just below Damen’s jaw. Damen feels blood bead and run. 

“Friend,” says Damen, as if testing them term. His mouth tastes bitter. 

Damen assess his physical state. His mind: still foggy. Body: not cooperating just yet. His limbs feel like sand. Carefully, he shifts his leg, and discovers that he cannot yet move it. 

He looks up into Athos’s icy stare. There is something predatory, almost hungry there. It’s unsettling. 

“The last time we met, I was forced to grovel for you. On my knees. Begging for aid for my country.” Athos’s cool breath ghosts over Damen’s cheek, and he slowly drags the knife over Damen’s jaw. Blood runs hotly down his neck. 

“Do you wish you’d helped us now?” 

Athos’s hand comes up to cup Damen’s cheek. His eyes bore into Damen’s. His mouth twists into a grin. 

“I am going to enjoy every second of this,” says Athos, and rises swiftly from his crouch. With great effort, Damen avoids concussing himself on the floor, and manages to support his own head on his hands. He looks up. 

Laurent. Across from him, bound tightly to a chair, is the King of Vere. His head is hung; the gold fall of his hair covers his eyes. A woman - Astrid Dane, Damen remembers, is slowly trailing an elegant dagger across the shell of Laurent’s ear. Blood is oozing from bite marks scattered across his neck, like stars. Damen can see his breathing. 

“Please,” says Laurent, to the woman. Laurent never asks for anything. “Please, don’t hurt him.” He’s begging. Laurent is begging. 

“Oh, I can assure you,” says Astrid, in a lilting voice, “we are going to hurt him.” 

She holds the knife casually to Laurent’s pale throat. Above Damen, Athos leers. 

“Please,” says Laurent again, his eyes shining with - tears? Something in Damen’s mind snaps. Laurent does not beg. Laurent does not cry. Except, apparently, he does. 

“Please, hurt me instead, don’t hurt him, don’t-“

Astrid covers his mouth with her hand. 

“Shut up,” she says softly, into Laurent’s ear. 

Laurent shuts up. Blood oozes from his neck, staining the gold of his hair. Astrid does not remove her hand. 

Athos is undoing his belt. 

“Don’t worry, pretty thing,” he says, gravelly voice low and predatory. 

He slides a knife from his belt and, before Damen can flinch or cry out a warning, throws it in Laurent’s direction without so much as a glance. It sticks in the chair leg, where it quivers ominously. Laurent does not jump. 

“You’ll get your turn too. Patience.”

Silent tears are welling in Laurent’s eyes. One slips down to where Astrid’s hand still covers his mouth. Astrid, deliberately, tastes it. Damen surpresses a shudder. 

Athos is unlacing the front of his trousers. It is only then that Damen’s drug-numbed brain, stupidly, is able to discern his intent: Athos is going to rape him. And Laurent is going to watch. 

The sheer horror of it hits Damen in a wave: he feels the immense urge to shake off the drug-induced stupor, to wrap his hands around Athos’ throat and squeeze until the life has gone out of him. He feels this, and, remembering the knife at Laurent’s throat, the serpent at his back (and recalling his own complete inability to move), represses it. He is going to lie here, and Athos is going to rape him, and he is not going to do a thing to prevent it. 

His objectives, which before had been many, now condense into one: to get himself and Laurent out of here alive. “Unscathed” is no longer in the question: the best he can hope for us a timely escape including as little trauma as possible. The problem with escape being both his and Laurent’s complete helplessness at the moment. Laurent, usually so quick to devise a plan, to employ his clever mind, is now sobbing silently into Astrid’s hand while she strokes his hair; Damen can see his chest heaving, stuttering, tears rolling down onto the hand over his mouth, and the sight makes his chest ache. Damen is similarly at a loss: prone on the floor, entirely unable to move, watching his lover and his dignity fall apart. 

If his current situation, then, cannot be changed, then he will simply have to endure it. He mentally steels himself as best he can as Athos finishes with his laces and removes his cock, thick and fully roused. He reaches down and hauls Damen into a sitting position, supported by the wall; Damen realizes, then, that Athos means to fuck his mouth. So be it. 

Athos crouches down so that Damen’s face is level with his. His cool breath ghosts over Damen’s face. 

“Bite me,” he says, “and I will personally remove every one of your boyfriend’s teeth.” 

And kisses Damen, viciously, on the mouth, cold lips, tongue an intrusion, like kissing a corpse, he tastes of flowers and blood, and then Damen tastes his own blood as Athos bites down on his lip. And sucks. 

Over Athos’s shoulder, Laurent groans, a sound of pure despair. Athos stands up. 

Damen takes a deep breath. Distantly, he is aware of Athos forcing his mouth open; distantly, he is aware of the intrusion that is then forced in; distantly, he is aware of Laurent making a sound like a wounded dog. He will survive this the way he used to survive wounds on the battlefield: by simply ignoring it. He will ignore the rhythmic thrusting into his mouth, the clenching of his throat, the way Astrid is delighting in Laurent’s utterly broken tears. His eyes meet Laurent’s. Two blue lakes, shining, and they seem to say “I’m sorry.” He will survive even this. 

And then, it’s over. Athos stills and withdraws. Damen becomes suddenly aware of fresh knife cuts down his chest and across his face, courtesy of Athos, who is currently looking down at Damen with a mixture of disappointment and disgust. 

“You aren’t very much fun, are you? Bet we could change that.”

Astrid, from behind him: “He isn’t, but this one is. Look at his eyes, they’re so pretty when he’s all teary like this.” Laurent looks utterly beaten. 

“Besides,” Astrid continues, “I think it’s mostly whatever you drugged him with. Told you it was too much.” 

“Yeah, yeah. You were probably right.” 

Athos is redoing his belt, crossing the room to Astrid and Laurent. Damen feels a surge of protectiveness that is dulled by the drugs: they’re beginning to drag him down again. Fast. Too fast. His vision is blackening. 

Athos is contemplating Laurent. 

“Do you think we could take one of his eyes? Might make a pretty necklace.”

Damen wants to scream at them to stop, to leave Laurent alone, to let them go. But the drugs have taken over, and to his abject horror, his eyes slide shut. 

Athos picks up the knife.


	3. sacrifices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More misery, but also a possible escape plan! Laurent, my poor boy. He’s so fun to torture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gore. Non consensual kissing. Proceed with caution.

Laurent tries to focus on his breathing. In. Out. He feels his chest stutter. In. Out. He forces open his eyes. 

His head is bowed. He no longer has the strength to keep it up. His hair is damp with sweat, blood, tears. Where it falls into his eyes, it stings. 

He is reduced to this: focusing on the purely physical, one thing at a time, ignoring the tears that he cannot stop, ignoring the sinuous voices in his ears, ignoring the crumpled form of Damen across the room, long since unconscious. How long has it been since he left, since Laurent has been the sole object of attention for the twins? Hours. An age. 

Pain. The pain grounds him, reminds him of what he must do. He flexes his right forearm, broken bones complaining. He reminds himself of what it cost to break that bond: a shattered wrist that will probably never heal properly. He reminds himself of what it bought him: freedom. Possibly. If he can play this right. 

The tears were forced, at first. He comforts himself with this. He tells himself that if he had not forced them, if he did not have something to obtain with them, that he would not be broken, as he is now. Crying. Pleading. Begging, 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦, 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦-

He knows that he’s probably wrong. The last few hours have been a hell that he’s not sure even his iron will could withstand. In a way, this weakness is a relief: knowing that with his tears, his pleas, every shameful thing that will haunt him later, he is purchasing his and Damen’s freedom. Possibly. Just a few more hours, and he can act. Just a few more hours of this, and then -

Cold hand on the back of his neck. Laurent’s head snaps up. 

“Mind wandering, flower boy?” says Astrid Dane. 

“We don’t want that,” says Athos, sinuously. He slides forward from where he had been standing in front of Laurent, into his lap. Thighs on either side of his. Arms wrapped around his neck. Noses nearly touching. 

“Fuck, your eyes,” says Athos, trailing a finger down Laurent’s cheek. “They’re so pretty, all bloodshot like this.”

Laurent keeps those eyes on Athos, watching. Where...where.... and then Athos shifts forward, and he sees it. Around his neck. There. 

“You better be grateful that I like them better in your head than I do in a jar.”

Laurent suppresses the urge to retch, and nods a little, in response. 

“Show me,” says Athos, and Laurent kisses him, out of gratitude that Athos has allowed him to retain his pretty eyes. Or something like that. Athos’ thighs are a heavy weight on his own. Astrid is methodically cutting patterns into his left forearm. You’d think that they’d run out of things to do with a knife. 

“You know, we could take a souvenir,” Astrid muses, still playing with her knife. “Nothing too big. Just a hand. Maybe an ear.”

With Athos’s tongue still in his mouth, Laurent feels his heart stutter. The rest, he can heal from. A missing hand? Not so much. He feels real fear begin to build, and, carefully, suppresses it. He can talk his way out of anything. 

Athos extracts himself. “Mmm. Maybe. We could cut out that wicked silver tongue. Would you like that, pretty boy?” 

He stands and circles, crouching down so that his eyes meet Laurent’s. Laurent feels his heart racing. His tongue. He needs his tongue. He looks into Athos’s cruel blue eyes and lets the fear show. 

“Come on,” Athos whispers. “Beg me not to.”

Astrid’s hands comb through his hair. 

“Work for it,” she murmurs.

Laurent swallows hard, and opens his mouth. “Please,” he says, and lets his voice tremble. It’s rusty from disuse. “Please, not my tongue, don’t hurt me, please...”

Tears pool in his eyes, and he lets them fall. In front of him, Athos looks vaguely disappointed. 

“Not very creative, are you?” He stands. “Astrid. Gag him.”

“Gladly,” Astrid hisses. Athos walks away, into the corner behind Laurent. Laurent hears the unmistakable sounds of Athos sharpening a blade, and his heart jumps into his throat. 

“His whining is starting to bore me.”

Astrid reaches into the pocket of her white coat - somehow, still immaculate - and removes a contraption of metal and leather. A ring gag, by the looks of it. Shit. His tongue. His tongue. Despite himself, Laurent strains against his (remaining) bonds. He reminds himself that his right hand is free. He can’t act. Not yet. 

Astrid smirks. “None of that, sweetheart. Open up.”

Laurent does not open his mouth. His tongue. He can talk his way out of anything, except for when he can’t talk. 

Astrid casually backhands him across the face. Behind him, Athos is still sharpening the knife. Laurent tastes blood. 

“I said, 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩.” Astrid’s voice is dangerously low. Laurent opens his mouth. 

Astrid smirks again. “Good boy.” Laurent feels his cheeks heat in shame. 𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘣𝘰𝘺. 

‘I am the King of Vere’, Laurent reminds himself.   
It doesn’t help. 

Astrid is forcing the metal part of the gag into his mouth. It stretches his lips painfully wide. Astrid buckles it behind his head, then wraps the straps around his throat again and tightens them. Laurent starts to choke. Blood drips from cuts, newly opened by the straps of the gag. Saliva slips from his mouth. 

“Oh,” says Astrid. “Oh, Athos, he’s so gorgeous like this.”

Athos comes to stand beside Astrid. He holds a cruel-looking serrated knife with a casual grip. His ice-blue eyes are sparkling. Laurent feels tears slide down his cheeks and drip, disgustingly, into his open mouth, onto his tongue. His tongue. He is staring at the knife. 

“My eyes are up here, sweetheart,” purrs Athos. A cruel grin is fixed on his face. Laurent drags his gaze up to meet Athos’s. 

Laurent is past all dignity. And so as much as it pains him to do it, Laurent swallows his pride and begs, with his eyes. He lets show all his pain, his fear, his brokenness. For the first time, he displays genuine emotion - raw, broken pain and sorrow, on full display for the Dane twins. For good measure, he whimpers. 

Athos stalks forward, and runs a dominant hand through Laurent’s hair. Laurent forces himself to lean into the touch. 

“Athos,” says Astrid. “A finger, I think. He’ll be less fun if he can’t talk.”

Relief. Then panic. Relief again. A missing finger, he can live with. Good god, just let him keep his tongue. 

“Plus,” Astrid purrs, leaning down to wrap her arms around Laurent’s shoulders. “If you take his tongue, you can’t make him give you head.”

Athos laughs, leisurely. “A finger, then. Do you want to do the honors?”

“Of course.” Astrid disentangles herself from Laurent and takes the knife from Athos. Laurent’s heart rate spikes. He forces it down. Athos once again moves to straddle his lap. Astrid is choosing a finger on his left hand. He feels her settle on his pinkie. Laurent forces himself to meet Athos’s eyes. 

Through the gag, Athos kisses him. He is still kissing Laurent when Astrid snaps his finger, and he is still kissing Laurent when she begins to saw through muscle and skin. Athos groans. And with his free hand, Laurent carefully, so carefully, snaps and removes the chain hanging from Athos’s neck.

There is a key in his hand. Laurent screams into Athos Dane’s mouth.


	4. what’s pride, anyway?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Bad Things Happen? But also maybe some good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of gore!

At last - days, years, ages later - Laurent hears the door to the cell close. The lock turns. It leaves him in near-darkness, but finally he is alone - unless, of course, you count Damen, still unconscious on the floor. The room is silent except for the sounds of Laurent’s own heaving breaths, still stuttering in his chest as shock waves of pain continue to roll through him, and the gentle drip of blood to the floor. 

The Danes had tired of him, eventually, but it had taken a patchwork of cuts, multiple broken bones, scars to his face that will probably never fade, if the pain is anything to go off of. The loss of his left pinkie finger. Screaming himself hoarse; Laurent doubts his ability to speak. He has been utterly stripped of all dignity and pride, but it’s worth it, isn’t it, because clenched in his right hand as tightly as his broken wrist will allow is - 𝘩𝘢 - the key. 

Inhale. Exhale. Ignore the pain. Regain composure. What next? Laurent’s eyes cut across the room to the dark heap in the corner - Damen. The Danes must be fairly confident in the sedative that’s keeping him asleep, or they wouldn’t have left him unchained. Or maybe they looked forward to the helpless anger that would have come, when Damen eventually awoke to find Laurent, bound to a chair, gagged, dripping blood, stripped of all his usual poise and dignity, and utterly unable to do anything about it.

Such thoughts aren’t helpful right now. Laurent physically shakes his head, gently, in an attempt to clear it. Shattered pride he will deal with later. Now, to focus on his objective: escape. Carefully, he eases open the hand clutching the key, broken bones groaning in protest at the flex; it falls to the ground with a painfully loud clatter that makes Laurent wince. He pauses, waits a beat. Nothing. Next step, then. Quickly, but with some difficulty, ignoring the screaming agony that comes from using his broken wrist, Laurent frees his left hand. He carefully ignores the bloody stump where his little finger used to be. 

He has to pause and recover after even this simple task. His head is reeling with pain and sickening nausea; he’s going to throw up. He’s not going to throw up. His head pounds. Another deep, steadying breath; then, using just his left hand, Laurent reaches up and begins to claw at the straps from the gag, still forcing his mouth open. In vain. He grits his teeth, and with a Herculean effort of will, lifts his right hand to undo the buckle, letting out a scream that he’s not quite able to muffle behind the gag. Then, finally, it’s off; for the first time in hours, Laurent is able to close his mouth. When reaches up to rub his aching jaw, his fingers come away bloody. Or the remaining ones, at least. 

From there, it’s a simple matter to reach down and undo the straps binding his legs. Still, by the time he’s free, Laurent is dizzy. Blood loss? Shock? Sheer horror at the utter unexpected brutality of it all? How long has it been. Days, maybe. Hours. Laurent has to fight off the urge to simply fall asleep right here, in this bloodstained chair, this room that smells of iron and sickly sweet flowers. The mental image of the Dane twins, returning to find him unbound and asleep, has Laurent on his feet in a moment. 

Too fast; he nearly falls over. Still, he recovers some semblance of his usual grace, and, dripping gently, stoops to retrieve the dropped key. Stumbling only a little, he crosses the room to where Damen lies unconscious, in the exact same position that he was when the Dane twins started on Laurent, an age ago. Something in Laurent’s heart swells at seeing him. This, at least, is a small blessing; Damen isn’t hurt. 

Laurent crouches beside him and, using his unbroken hand, shakes him gently. The bicep beneath his hand is sleep-warm and solid. 

“Damen,” Laurent says. Or tries to say. On his first attempt, no sound comes from his mouth, his vocal cords frayed and sore from hours of screaming and pleading. When he manages to speak, his voice comes out raspy and barely there. 

“Damen,” he says again, shaking him. “Damen. Wake up.”

Beneath Laurent’s hands, Damen gently comes awake. His eyes, when they open, meet Laurent’s; at first sleep filled and soft, then shifting quickly to horror as he fully wakes up and takes in Laurent’s bloodied, beaten state. Laurent sits down hard as pain hits him again in a wave. 

Damen sits up quickly, and Laurent can see that he’s trying to mask his panic. 

“Laurent... what.. what....” Damen’s voice breaks, sleep heavy but horror stricken. He moves to his knees, eyes raking over Laurent’s form. 

“What did they do to you?” He says, voice a raspy whisper. 

“What, am I looking less than prime today, darling,” Laurent drawls, leaning against the wall for support now. He really is rather lightheaded. He’s aware of the ridiculously bad timing of what he’s said. He’s aware that now is not the time for sarcasm or petulance. And yet. He appears to have spent all his willpower in the last few hours of hell, and is perfectly content to allow Damen to get them out of here. He’s certainly capable. 

“Oh, fuck, fuck, this is bad,” says Damen in a worried tone, voice trailing off as he moves to examine Laurent’s injuries. 

“Really,” says Laurent dryly. Damen ignores him in favor of removing the tattered, bloodstained remains of Laurent’s shirt.

“Bruising up the left side,” Damen mutters to himself in his commander’s voice, passing a hand over Laurent’s torso. 

“Countless deep lacerations, possible broken ribs, that hip doesn’t look quite right, deep cuts on the neck and face, shattered right wrist, missing left pinkie...” Damen stops, and when his eyes meet Laurent’s, they are full of pain and worry. 

“I’m not going to continue. We need to get you the fuck out of here.” 

“Seconded,” Laurent murmurs, dropping his head back against the wall. “This one’s on you, barbarian, I don’t think I can walk.” 

“Laurent...” says Damen, and Laurent can hear him standing. “Stay awake. Please. Let me get you out of here.” 

Laurent feels Damen’s arms fitting around him, and then he is lifted into the air in a princess carry. He can’t even bring himself to be mortified as he stifles a cry of pain in Damen’s shoulder. He’s so tired.... 

“Stay with me, Laurent, stay with me,” Damen murmurs as he walks toward the door. The door. 

“Damen,” Laurent manages to grit out, fighting back sleep with everything he has left. “The key. It’s in my left..” Laurent stops as his vision goes spotty. “My left...”

And then the key is being gently pried from his palm, and the door is swinging open, and Laurent, wrapped in Damen’s arms, is fading gently into warm black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the three (3) whole people with this bookmarked, sorry for the long update! Come yell at me and make me write more!


	5. in which Damen isn’t, after all, entirely an idiot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damen is smart. That’s all. 
> 
> Also, this chapter definitely has some Good Things! If that’s what you’re after. It’s not entirely blood and misery in here. Not quite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, gore warning! Also, these chapters are getting shorter, I apologize. I’m trying to be consistent with my writing again, so I figure a short update a day is better than nothing at all ...?

Damen is in the dark again, but this time he isn’t alone. Never was. 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘰, 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, something whispers in his ear, curling round his mind like a snake, and it’s Astrid or Athos, or maybe it’s both. 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘰, they say, voices twined, and there are cold hands sliding down the muscles of his thighs, nails scraping along his neck. A set of chilled lips pressed to his. 𝘏𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮?

Damen listens, and becomes aware of a gentle dripping of something in the background. Blood.

𝘞𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴, the voice in his left ear murmurs, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴, it finishes in his right. 

Horror wells in Damen like floodwater after a storm, and yet, suddenly able to see, he has to look. He turns, and there, hanging from the ceiling like a cut of meat, is Laurent’s mutilated body. Eyes gone; limbs gone; face beaten, half of it skinned, jaw smashed in, teeth broken where they aren’t missing. Sticky blood drips from - 𝘪𝘵 - no, him, except that can’t be, that miserable, pathetically mewling thing can’t be Laurent, it can’t - and yet Damen knows, inherently, that it is. 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 , it says, a single word escaping the place where its mouth used to be, and Damen turns his head to the side to vomit. A cold hand on his shoulder, knife tracing lovingly down his throat: 𝘏𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮?

Damen wakes with a start, heart pounding. The nausea and horror of the dream linger, and for a moment, Damen remains in the chair where he’d fallen asleep, gasping. Eventually, his heart slows; still, it takes every ounce of will that he has to look over at the bed where Laurent sleeps, some part of him convinced that the man he loves will have become a bloody, mutilated slab of meat, as he was in his dream. But of course, when Damen looks, Laurent remains as whole as he was before Damen dreamed. The sight of Laurent’s curled, sleep softened form, blankets pooled around his waist, comforts him. 

Damen rises, carefully, from his chair near the fire. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but, well, it was a long day. Rolling his neck to relieve some of the stiffness associated with sleeping for hours in a hard Veretian chair, Damen crosses the room to the bed. Part of him is still afraid from the dream, and there’s a comfort to be had in resting his hand, gently, on the warm slope of Laurent’s waist. His loose sleeping shirt has ridden up, exposing his ribs and a patchwork of bandages. Beneath his touch, Laurent stirs, but does not wake. 

They’ve been staying in this particular inn for the past day. The keep where the Danes had tortured Damen and Laurent had, apparently, been situated on the Veretian coast; and after managing to escape the dungeons, steal a horse, and ride hard for a full day with a half-conscious Laurent balanced in front of him, Damen figured they could both use some time to regroup and heal. After arriving near sunset, Damen had bathed them both, carefully bandaged Lauren’s (numerous) wounds, and let him sleep. Damen had intended to keep watch this night, but sleep had called heavily. Now, it’s got to be near morning, but still dark outside, and Damen can’t quite seem to chase the scraps of his nightmare away. 

Sighing heavily, he crawls into bed beside Laurent. No use being entirely exhausted tomorrow; he may as well doze. Laurent’s skin, sleep warm even through his shirt, is a comfort against Damen’s back. There’s a number of things to be addressed once Laurent awakens; primarily, how to get back to the palace, but following that, the matter of the Dane twins. What were they? What was their objective? Was it simply one of senseless sadism, or did they have a plan? Damen can’t shake the sense that it was too easy to escape, too easy to get away, that there’s a grander scheme here. He can’t shake the sense that this, perhaps, was a trial run, the Danes testing their merit. 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘰, Damen hears, again, and physically shudders, the silky voice wrapping an oily grip around him. 

He has to talk to Laurent. Laurent is the schemer, Laurent will understand.. and for now, Damen is so, so tired, and so he curls into his love, buries his face in a warm, faintly musky shoulder, and sleeps.


End file.
